The Hunter and the Hunted
by Inulover37
Summary: John Watson is an ex-military doctor and a seasoned hunter. Not for the normal things like deer and things, but for the supernatural. Demons and ghosts and such. There's a job available for him, but the demon that shows up isn't exactly what he was expecting. Five plus one fic. With Hunter!John and Demon!Sherlock.
1. Chapter 1

He'd gotten a tip from and old friend. Detective Inspector Lestrade knew about his line of work, and had sworn to call him up if there was anything suspicious going on. And by suspicious, he means supernatural. Demons, ghosts, monsters, and anything else, was hunted by none other than John Watson. Usually it's just the normal spirit wreaking havoc; an easy fix, just salt and burn the remains, but this time…

This time Lestrade's voice sounded unnaturally nervous. It must be something big this time then.

That was two days ago; the call. And right now John was walking into Scotland Yard to find Lestrade. The detective inspector was in his office, his knee bouncing uncontrollably. He was anxious, that much for sure.

Now Lestrade wasn't young; he'd seen his fill of trouble for one lifetime. Being around mid-forties, gray hair, and everything else that came with aging. He'd learned all sorts of things in his time on the force, but this, this was new to him. The older man saw the younger; younger by only a few years give or take; man through the door.

John wasn't a unique man. Dusty blond hair, dark blue eyes, short but muscular stature. He had an old scar on his shoulder from a gruesome spirit from when he first began hunting, but normally he doesn't bring that up in everyday conversation.

He limped into the office and sat in one of the chairs across from Lestrade. He sighed in relief as the weight was lifted off of his leg. "How are you?" The detective-inspector asked lightly. "Long time no see."

"I'm fine, apart from my leg. The last job took a toll. Stupid daevas…" John muttered, then cleared his throat. "You called me in for a job?"

Lestrade nodded, pulling out a manila folder from the right drawer. "Yeah. And I have to tell ya, I've never seen anything like this before." He mentioned, handing over the file.

John flipped it open. It was a series of deaths. Within a week of each other. There were 3, well-known people that died. Alice Collins, a renowned singer who debuted about 10 years ago, with London being her hometown; Kat McCraney, a genius, who taught astrophysics at the nearby university, who also became known about 10 years ago; and Derick Irwin, a talented artist, who's first masterpiece was also 10 years ago. "I've seen things like this before. It's a crossroads demon. Find the right intersection, perform a summoning ritual, and you've got a demon to make a deal with you before it will send out it's hellhounds that sniff you out. Can you find me an intersection with yarrow around the edges? Most likely in a hundred-mile radius. I'll need to get some supplies first. I could have this thing gone as soon as tonight I guess." John said, standing up and heading to the door. "Call me when you have the road. I'll be around." And with that, he left Scotland Yard.

Only about an hour passed until John's phone rang; a text from Lestrade. Only one intersection then. Good. John smiled, and climbed into his car, then drove off.

This crossroad was at the edge of the city; almost countryside. There was only an abandoned bar at the side of the road; the only building in sight. Night had fallen by the time that John arrived. He stepped onto the practically gravel road, slamming the car door shut behind him. A knife was strapped to his hips, while a gun holster; with the Colt inside; was held tight to his right leg. John pulled a shovel from the trunk and set to work in the center of the road. The gravel was loose; a sure sign of a ritual.

After he was finished digging, John knelt down. Opening the box, he placed inside his picture. Then went to bury the box once more. He stiffened his grip on the shovel's handle as he waited. A moment later, he noticed a presence behind him. John wasn't one for taking chances, and the shovel in his hand swung around at full force, connecting with the head of whatever was standing behind him. The body fell to the ground with a dull thump. John couldn't see the face of it very well; it was dark out; but it was a demon. How else could it have sneaked up on him, an ex-military doctor, and not have been heard?

Anyways, John let the shovel fall to the ground, and picked up the demon. It was surprisingly light for its height; that's not the main problem at this point however. He needed somewhere to put this one. His gaze traveled to the abandoned bar. Perfect.

Not ten minutes later, the demon was tied up to a chair with a demon trap on the floor below. John had pulled up another chair, and spent the spare time sharpening his knife.

He had to admit, the thing had picked out a nice meatsuit. Dark brown curls licked his face. With high cheekbones and bowed lips, they accented the pale skin. When it was sleeping it looked like a dead man; the meatsuit probably was dead too. A low grumble echoed through the room, and John tensed; ready to strike. The demon stirred, its eyes blinked open, pitch black at first; after a moment the black seeped back into the iris and left behind a light grey. The demon struggled against the ropes for a moment, and realized where it was. It spotted John just outside the circle, and the eyes flashed black again just for a moment. "Hello." It said in a baritone voice that echoed softly. "I'm assuming you're here to kill me is that it? I must say that that circle there is quite a powerful one. More to the point, there's been a series of murders that all seemed to be done by a stupid demon. 3 dead. I should mention that I am not a crossroads demon. So I'm afraid you've caught the wrong one."

"You're still just a demon." John retorted quickly.

"You're still just a hunter that caught the wrong demon. In all honesty I'm not evil."

"Say's who?"

"Says me. Do you see me trying to make any deals to escape?"

John paused, with a grimace on his face. "That matters how?"

"I could help. That demon your looking for is actually my brother. He makes deals without care for anything, and doesn't cover up his tracks after he's done. He's an idiot really."

"Your brother?"

"Are you always so obvious? It's a wonder how Mycroft can stand you humans. Mycroft is my idiot of a brother. I'm Sherlock."

"You're trying to kill your own brother?" John spun his knife between his fingers as he spoke.

Sherlock chuckled, bunching his hands into fists and pulled at the ropes. "It's not my idea, but I would kill him anyway." He said as if was an everyday conversation.

John hesitated answering; he looked at his feet. "If I release you…will you not go AWOL?"

"It's a deal." Sherlock said, smirking while his eyes flashed black again. John tensed his shoulder muscles and gripped the knife until his knuckles were white. "Relax. I'm kidding.

The hunter huffed, still not fully trusting this thing; Sherlock or whatever its name was. He got grudgingly to his feet and stepped into the circle, using the knife to cut the ropes holding the demon down. Then drew his foot across the edge of the paint on the floor, permanently breaking the circle. "Ah, that's much better, thank you." Sherlock mentioned. "Now, onto busine-"

He had turned to find that the hunter had disappeared without a trace. The man was surely skilled to avoid detection from a demon. This intrigued him, and he made a note to himself to find this hunter again.


	2. Chapter 2

This job John had found himself while in London. Apparently some people had been murdered, their bodies drained of all of their blood, with small but gruesome puncture wounds along the neck. It wasn't very hard to figure it out. A vampire was what John was dealing with this time.

This whole deal had been put under the radar by Scotland yard, but of course John found out. (No thanks to Lestrade.)

John found the nest by connecting the dots; literally. He used a map of the city and planted a dot at each attack site, then drew lines to each, and at the center where they all crossed, was the nest, and John was closing in on it fast.

A wooden stake was clenched in his hand, while a spare one laid in his coat pocket. They had been soaked with Dead-man's blood before he had set out for the nest; just a stab to the heart would be enough, and head's off for good measure, then burning the bodies would finish the process. 'I just hope there's not that many…' John thought to himself before sighing heavily.

He stealthily crept through the abandoned building, until screams pierced the air. It shouldn't be like this, someone or something else was here. John barreled forward at top speed, breaking down the double doors that led to the main room. He saw that at least five dead bodies were laying on the ground, drenched in their own blood and the head's seperated from the bodies. A solitary man stood in the center of all this commotion, wiping his hands with a spare cloth. The man turned around, and John suddenly knew who it was; he never forgets a face. "What the hell are you doing here?" He yelled loudly, letting the weapon in his hand drop to his side.

Taking care of these nuisances. What else would I be doing here?" Sherlock's eyes flashed to black almost immediately.

John shuddered. "Can you please not do that?" He questioned softly

"Do what?"

"The eye thing."

"I don't control it most of the time. That's the one thing I don't have the hang of yet." His eyes faded back to the light grey.

The hunter sighed in frustration, flipping the stake in his hand to a defensive position. "I'm just gonna go then. Since you did the job for me." He started for the door.

"Yet you take the credit."

John stopped, and turned back to face the demon. "What?" He intertogated.

Sherlock smirked, chuckling, the deep sound of it echoing softly off the walls. "Exactly what I said. You take the credit for the jobs that I take care of."

"Because you always get here before me! If you gave me a chance then I'll actually be able to take care of it myself!" John raised his voice. "And I can't exactly say that a fricking _demon _has been doing my jobs for me!"

"Why not?"

"It's wrong that's what!" John was just about full out screaming by now. "If I walk up to Lestrade and say 'Hey, I've lied. I'm not doing the jobs that you assign me because a demon is taking care of it for me.' He's going to think I'm crazy!"

"So his name is Lestrade."

"You missed the point! Ugh…why am I even talking to you…" John sighed, exasperated. "I'm leaving."

John turned to leave once more, this time for sure, but was stopped by a sudden firm grip on his wrist. John knew. "Will you let go? I've gotta get back." He said.

"I never caught your name."

"It's John…" He told the demon; wrenching his hand out from the grip. John was soon gone.

Sherlock tilter his head, staring after the shorter man. "John…" He liked the feel of that name on his lips and smiled.


	3. Chapter 3

John wasn't doing so well. This job wasn't an easy one to begin with, but John had handled these kinds on things before. Wendigos weren't that hard to kill, the problem was, that usually there's not only one all by it's lonesome. They lived in families, and John was currently trapped by a family of four; the father and 3 children, two daughters and a son. They cackled happily as the drew knives and other sharp objects across John's skin. He wasn't sure that he would make it out of this one alive.

He suffered- for hours, cuts and scratches dotting his muscular form; his shirt in shreds. John noticed that the wendigos had stopped, and were now preparing to finish him off. He closed his eyes, accepting his fate.

The funny thing was, the pain never came. John was a statue for a good minute before he took a chance and peeked open his left eye. The monsters were now at the far wall, slumped against the wood in a pile; dead. John was thoroughly confused, for a moment, then he felt a faint pair of hands working at the constraints that held his hands. He jumped, turning his head around quickly, and came face to face with a mop of soft, curly dark hair. It was that demon again, and it was laughing. "What are you doing here?" John sighed, relaxing a bit and slumping a fraction of an inch in the chair.

"You said before that you didn't need me to do your job. So I backed off on this one. But I was still needed anyways." Sherlock said, releasing John's hands.

The hunter rubbed his wrists, and stood to turn and face Sherlock. "You are impossible. Why didn't I just kill you in the first place?"

Sherlock shrugged. "If you did get rid of me, you wouldn't be alive right now." He pointed out.

John stopped, grumbling to himself. "Yeah, okay, point taken. Thanks, by the way." He said, almost inaudibly.

"Did- what's his name, Lestrade or whatever- send you here?" Sherlock said awkwardly. Probably just trying to create small talk.

The hunter raised an eyebrow at the odd question. "No…" He spoke eventually. "I found it."

"John, I have another question."

"What now?"

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Huh?"

"I'm not repeating myself."

"How could you possibly know about that?"

Sherlock turned to face John head on, that smirk still lingering. "The posture when you stand says military, along with the short hair and the stern expression. You're shoulder was injured on battle and now has a small tick in it whenever you lift it a certain way. The faint tan-line on your wrists and neck; nobody would get those if they were at that climate for just a vacation. Where would a military man of your age get an injury and a tan like that: Afghanistan or Iraq."

"That was…amazing." John breathed.

"What?"

"How did you do that?"

"Answer the question."

"Afghanistan…but how?"

Sherlock smiled. "I saw it. I am a sociopath you see, and my brain performs at a higher rate than most anyone or anything."

John chuckled. "Fantastic."

"That's not what people normally say." Sherlock said softly, his smile partially fading as he turned away slightly.

"What do people normally say?"

"…piss off…"

John snickered at that; Sherlock as well, but on a much softer scale. Not soon after the hunters wounds were beginning to sting. "I should go now…see ya."

Sherlock leapt forward and clenched onto John's wrist. He stopped and whipped around. "What now?" He said impatiently.

"No one has ever said that to me." The demon spoke quietly.

"Said what?"

"Fantastic…"

"Oh…well, uhm…you're welcome?"

Sherlock smiled once again, his white teeth glinting. "I'll see you again then." His gentlemanly demeanor returning quickly as he released his grip and stepped back.

John stayed silent, staring for a moment, but broke his gaze and left without another word.


	4. Chapter 4

It was just an urban legend. There was noway that this house; mansion more like; was haunted. Everyone in town knew the story, about the young woman that lived there years ago, Irene Adler, and how she died. She had been a criminal; to the police. They had found and killed her on the spot, in that house. People have tried to sell it, but whenever someone walked in, bad things would happen, such as 'accidents' and things related to that. The last couple that had been in there was almost killed.

The police weren't phased; they just assumed that some kids were playing a prank. They never caught the 'kids'.

There weren't any kids in the first place. John knew this for a fact, for he was currently in the house with an EMF detector, and it was going crazy. The hunter put the device away and checked the rounds of his rifle. Of course normal bullets wouldn't do the trick, so these were salt rounds that John had made himself. All he needed now were the remains; or a part of them; whatever was left of the woman that lived here.

John read the police reports earlier that day; they had taken the body and buried it in the cemetery without a proper ritual, after cremating it. That should've gotten rid of the spectre, unless there was something else that it was attached to. Most likely an item of some kind.

He took the EMF out again, and flipped a switch, turning it to a much higher sensitivity, so it would only detect the more concentrated amounts of ghostly activity. And from the way that the EMF was bleeping it was enough to say that the item was somewhere near. Most likely in the very room that John was standing in, and what a room it was. In general, it was very ornate and clean; odd. Those were really the only words to describe it. Ornate, clean, and odd. A bed, a sidetable, and a vanity were the only pieces of furniture. There was also a walk-in closet, filled with clothes of all sorts.

John began his search. There was one small problem however; John had no idea _what_ he was looking for. He was disappointed in himself for not doing more thorough research, and because of that, it made his job ten times harder.

The hunter waved the EMF over the bed; nothing.

Under the bed; also nothing.

By the sidetable; nada.

Checked the vanity; zip.

Closet; a little blip echoed through the small space. It was here then.

But before John had a chance to look a bit closer, a strong, invisible force threw him out to hit the wall opposite. Yeah, definitely the closet. He got to his feet groaning, that twinge in his arm; although he wasn't entirely sure if it was the twinge or not; it shot a spike of pain shooting through his nerves, and forced John back down to his knees.

The spectre was getting close; now visible. She was as pale as pale could get, with bright red lips and raggedy dark hair. Her clothes were tattered, with a gaping hole in the middle; the bullet hole. Irene was inches from the hunter, until there was a loud crash from the window shattering, and a form tumbled through it, passing among the ghost, causing it to disapperate for the moment. John took a deep breath of relief, and noticed that it was Sherlock that had saved him, again. "Thanks." John spoke softly.

The demon got to his feet. "It's not over yet." He said, his deep voice layered over with an even deeper growl.

Sherlock walked up to the entrance of the closet; standing in the doorway. He was chanting something in latin, and held up his hand. Irene appeared once again, screeching. She lunged forward toward Sherlock, but before she could reach the demon, he snapped his fingers. The whole closet burst into flames instantly. Sherlock lowered his hand and sighed, then turned back to John and helped the hunter to his feet. The blast of pain returned to his shoulder, and John keeled over once again, effectively leaning into Sherlock's chest. The demon lowered them to the ground. "John, your shoulder is dislocated, I'll have to set it right." Sherlock said quietly near John's ear, putting his limber hands on the hunters shoulder.

John just nodded, bracing himself for the pop. The taller man waited for just a moment before flexing his strong muscles and forcing the bone back into it's socket, that sickly sound of the bone moving back into place bounced off the walls. The hunter howled in pain, but eventually quieted down as the pain faded. John stayed leaned up against Sherlock's chest; not caring if he was a demon or not; and took deep breaths. "Thanks." He managed faintly.

Sherlock stayed silent, rubbing his right hand on the shoulder. The fire was still crackling; dying down as time went on. How much time had passed they weren't exactly sure, but ultimately John lifted his head up. "I should get going…thanks again…Sherlock." And with that the hunter got to his feet slowly, with a small amount of help from the demon, and left without another word. Sherlock was left alone sitting on the floor, smiling.

That was the first time that John had ever said his name. It gave Sherlock a warm feeling, but a problem arose. His heart ached now that John was gone. He had never felt this before. It worried him only slightly, and he soon cast that thought from his mind.


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks sall of you for being awesome fans! I can't believe that this fic is already closing in on 1,000 views! *mini-party* I love you all!  
Anyways, this is the last time where Sherlock finds John, the next one shall be the other way around. Stay tuned!

* * *

John couldn't stop running. Even when he felt like his lungs would burst; he couldn't. Sherlock was supposed to be taking care of the summoning cross, but John doubted that he was even trying, for the creature chasing him didn't show any attempt at stopping.

Perhaps a short explanation is in order.

It began as a simple job. John had noticed some strange coincidences between the deaths and the 'miracles' that were happening in the small town that John was passing through. He was just going out to scope the place undercover, and then Sherlock had to go and show up all of a sudden and ruin John's whole plan. And now John was being relentlessly chased by a reaper while that stupid demon was trying to destroy the summoning cross. Emphasis on trying. He wasn't doing a very good job. "Dammit…" The hunter breathed heavily as he tried to catch his breath. "Sherlock you bloody git, hurry up already."

John took a chance to look behind him. Odd; nothing was following him. He knew he shouldn't stop running, but his lungs were telling him otherwise. He slowed to a stop and slumped against the nearest tree, concentrating on breathing and trying to get the most amount of oxygen into his system. God, he hasn't ran this much since Afghanistan. There was a few moments of silence, until a boney hand was laid on John's face. The reaper. John panicked, and tried to get away, but he could feel the life force leaving his body. The skin on his face turned to a horrible pasty white. He assumed the rest of his body was the same. His eyesight got worse by the second; a black haze closing in from the edge of his sight.

The hunter was ready for death; even so a little sad, but he welcomed it anyways.

But death never came.

There was no more reaper hand on his face.

There was no more reaper period.

Just a forceful wave of life that poured into John; almost knocking him back. His breath came rushing back; he coughed as the air returned. The legs that were holding him up didn't anymore, and John fell to the ground on his knees with a thump. He took deep breaths, as if he had just come up for air after being underwater at the drowning point. The leaves above his head rustled softly as another figure appeared. John flinched, and his head snapped up to look.

Sudden relief washed over him when he saw that now familiar mop of dark curly hair. "So you finally managed to get the job done. You and your timing." John breathed as Sherlock kneeled down.

"Apologies." The taller one said, laying a hand on the shorters' shoulder. "The victim wasn't cooperating very well. Are you alright?"

"Oh just peachy. Almost getting the life sucked out of you by a reaper does wonders for the skin."

Sherlock smiled and chuckled, then helped John to his feet, supporting some of the hunters weight.

That was the first time that John had seen a genuinely happy smile on the demon's face. Not all demons were bad; Sherlock proved that. John now thought of him as a good friend; a best friend. If any other hunter saw this John wouldn't know what to expect. "Thanks Sherlock." He mentioned quietly; he looked away for a moment. Why, he didn't know, but there was a definite warmth in his cheeks.

There was a small pause until the demon spoke. "You're welcome John." Sherlock answered back softly. Almost to the point where John couldn't hear. "Let's get you back."

"You should rest when we get there you know. Going this long can't be good for you." John's speech slurred as his eyelids drooped.

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't require rest like you humans." He said matter-of-factly, then kneeled in front of John, his back facing the hunter. "Here."

"What are you doing?" John questioned.

"I'll give you a lift back to the cheap motel you are currently residing in. You look like you could fall over at any moment."

John hesitated, but complied not too long after. He could feel the strength in Sherlock's arms and back; causing his cheeks to heat up once more. The hunter laid his head on the nearest shoulder, which happened to be Sherlock's right one, and laid his hands on them as well. The warmth that emanated from Sherlock lulled John, and he was soon falling asleep as the demon went on his way.

It was odd though. John didn't expect a demon walking around in a dead meatsuit to be warm like this. He didn't mind it much of course, but it still puzzled him nonetheless.

That was the last thought John's mind knew until he was out, soothed to sleep by the demon carrying him.


	6. Chapter 6

John had fallen asleep while Sherlock brought him back to the motel. The soft breaths as John snored ruffled the soft fuzz at the nape of Sherlock's neck. It sent shivers down his spine. The demon took a glance over at the hunter, the sleeping man's peaceful face laying limp on his shoulder.

The moonlight made John's already light hair shine, as well as his face, highlighting all of his features. Sherlock smiled to himself, and turned back forward.

For a high-functioning sociopath, his problem was infuriating. Sherlock normally knew everything about everybody, but John, John was a different story. Could they be considered best friends? Possibly. Sherlock did. John was the only real friend he'd ever had. The only one that even bothered to cooperate with the demon. One thing was standing in the way however. The hunter and demon thing wouldn't stand very well with others. It would seem awkward to any other of their kind.

Sherlock sighed, and didn't let the idea bother him. He filed it away in his mind palace under 'John'.

It took only fifteen more minutes to get into the motel room. Sherlock kneeled down beside the bed and softly flopped John onto it. The hunter fidgeted slightly, but soon settled down once again. Sherlock took the covers and laid them over John, but not before taking the boots off of his feet.

The demon took up a spot on the nearby chair, and pulled his knees to his chest. He stared at the sleeping John, and nodded off thinking about the hunter.

.

.

.

Sherlock was jerked awake by the sound of a door latching closed. Someone was here. He leaped to his feet and grabbed one of the weapons that John had spread about. The demon didn't waste any time going to the door and opening it once more. Nothing was outside. He immediately assumed the worst. Sherlock quickly went back to John, where he found the now awake hunter restrained by two muscled men. Another man stood there as well, but he was the scrawniest of the three. The smaller one turned to face Sherlock, and the face that turned to look was someone he knew very well. His fellow demon, Moriarty. John struggled against the two men holding him back, ripping free for a moment. "Sherlock!" He yelled, but was soon caught again, and this time was knocked out by a rag covered in chloroform. The two men laid him down on the bed, without a gentle touch.

Sherlock growled under his breath. Moriarty was chuckling with delight. "Well hello there Sherly. I was beginning to miss you down there, so I came to find you. And what do I come to but you spending time with a hunter of all things. Shame on you Sherly. But we'll fix that soon enough." He said with a smile.

Moriarty snapped his fingers, and the two others that had been holding John suddenly seized Sherlock, knocking him out with a forceful whack on the head. Blackness swept over Sherlock as he passed out. The last thing he laid his eyes on was a unconscious John and the man's name silently passed his lips. 'John…'

.

.

.

John's head pounded as he regained consciousness. He sat up, putting a hand to his temple. Groaning, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The hunter blinked, and without warning remembered the events from the past night. John glanced at the clock- 2:43 p.m.- he had been out for quite awhile. Which only meant that Sherlock had been in trouble for that much as well. There was no sign of Sherlock in the motel room at all; the only thing that John found was a slip of paper with a few words written on it. _St. Bart's Hospital. _John's heart raced at the thought of Sherlock in trouble.

This time, it would be John saving Sherlock.

The hunter saving the demon.

The best friend saving the best friend.

Was it even right to call Sherlock that? John searched his thoughts. There was obviously some feeling there for the demon, but he couldn't put his finger on what it exactly was. But John couldn't worry about that now.

He had a demon to save.

John gathered every weapon that he could think of; knives, a short-barrel shotgun, some holy water, and the one pistol in the world that can kill a demon with one bullet: the Colt. John checked the barrel; only three bullets left; he would have to make those count then.

The hunter didn't waste any time heading out the door.

.

.

.

Sherlock blinked open his eyes, the darkness giving way to the bright sunlight. How it disgusted him. The demon grimaced, and got to his feet. A incessant ring echoed in his ears as he blinked the sleep out of his eyes. Everything was still hazy, but Sherlock could easily make out the circle trap beneath his feet.

As his sight improved, he saw two other men standing just outside the circle. It was Moriarty and one of his bloody followers, Sebastian. Moriarty was chuckling to himself. "Glad to see you're awake Sherly. You wouldn't want to miss the fun." He said with a smile.

"There's no fun in this."

The sly demon outside of the circle gasps dramatically. "Sherly I'm surprised at you. You've changed."

"Can you please refrain from calling me that name?"

"Sherly? Never."

"What am I doing here? I thought you were locked up in hell."

Moriarty laughed. "Oh I was. For seventy long years I was cooped up in that boring place. But then, a little birdie told me a way to get out, and I was released not long after with no charges."

Sherlock scoffed, and put his hands on his hips. "There's no way you're getting away with this."

"Oh, but I am." Moriarty clicked his tongue and wiggled a finger. "Sebby here is specially equipped with a spell that can immediately kill off anyone that he can get DNA from. AKA, you're little hunter friend John. Or should I even say friend; he seems to mean a lot more than that to you."

Sherlock surged forward with the intent of bringing Moriarty to his knees, but was held back by the invisible force of the circle beneath his feet. The trapped demon growled softly as his eyes went black.

Moriarty fake-cringed. "Oh now Sherly, don't be like that. You know how much I like those grey eyes of yours."

Sherlock didn't respond; and if looks could kill, Moriarty would be dead ten times over in a second.

All of a sudden, the door burst open from the sheer force of John's kick to the handle. The hunter whipped out the Colt, taking down Sebastian with a swift shot to the head. The hench-demon fell with a thud, while Moriarty stood with a smile on his face, clapping. "Ah, wonderful entrance John! Marvelous!" He said.

John didn't waste any time letting loose another bullet, but Moriarty saw it coming, and dodged. The bullet grazed Sherlock's arm a fraction of an inch, but the wound was enough to drive the demon to the ground in unimaginable pain. "Ooh, close one." Moriarty spoke, half to himself. The hunter meanwhile had thrown a splash of holy water at him, blinding the demon for a moment.

Which was just enough of a distraction for John to put the barrel of the Colt to Moriarty's head. "See you in Hell, bitch." John growled.

Moriarty grinned. "I plan to." He laughed loudly, while John pulled the trigger.

The demon was dead in a matter of seconds. John dropped the weapon immediately and went to Sherlock. He rubbed away part of the circle to break it, and took Sherlock's shirt and pressed it into the wound. The pained demons eyes were pure black, and his face was screwed up, trying to endure the pain. "Sherlock. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't here earlier, I…I…"

"John…" Sherlock breathed, and put a hand to the hunters face. "It's alright. I'm alive thanks to you."

John's eyes were welling up with tears; an odd occurrence for the hunter. "But…I thought I was going to lose you. I really thought…" He couldn't manage to say the worst that he had imagined.

The demon lifted himself up closer to John, and gave him a small peck on the cheek. "You'd never get rid of me." He smiled, his black eyes glinting with joy.

John was baffled for a moment, then chuckled. "This is an odd relationship isn't it?"

"The best kind."


	7. Apologies

AUTHOR'S NOTE

So, I've noticed that some of you would like a continuation of this fic. I would love to continue this, and I kinda have a few ideas for it. .

Sadly, my computer has broken and won't turn on. I'm not able to type, and therefore won't be able to post for a while. I'm really, really, sorry for this but I can't change what happens.

I will try to see if I can figure out something to get it done.

Until then, farewell.


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